


embryonic

by aloneintherain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Everyone loves this kid, Gen, Nervous Peter, New York City, POV Outsider, civilians interacting with super-heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 08:15:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloneintherain/pseuds/aloneintherain
Summary: Spider-Man is bare inches away from them. Spider-Man is looking their way. Spider-Man is … a lot shorter in person.





	embryonic

**Author's Note:**

> Mal is nonbinary, and goes by ‘they/them’ pronouns. I’m not used to writing those pronouns, so if I made a mistake anywhere, please point it out.
> 
> One anon prompted: could you write about spiderboy getting compliments from civilians and then those people being shocked by how shy and nervous peter is? And another prompted: I'd love some Spider-Man x New York. Don't really care about context or plot, I just need this interaction in my life. Bonus points if it has to do with Spidey’s age.
> 
> I’ve had this saved on my computer for MONTHS. I’m currently in the process of uploading a bunch of my drafts, one per day. (It’s my Christmas present to you all! This is probably the only Marvel one, though.) Sorry for the long wait, prompters!

Mal has lived in New York City their whole life. In the last two years, their online friends have started to pester them about the number of superheroes in the city. Apparently, the old _how many celebrities have you seen?_ question is transferrable. They can’t remember how many times they’ve been asked, _How many superheroes have you seen up close? Super-villains? Have you ever been rescued by a hero?_

Mal’s Aunt Margret was rescued by Thor, once. She fell off a building during the Battle of New York, and he caught her halfway down. Eight years later, she still brings it up every Thanksgiving.

Cosplayers are the closest Mal has come to meeting a superhero, and frankly, they want to keep it that way.

When a man wearing a fishbowl on his head appears in the middle of the overpass, green smoke curling around his ankles, spikes jutting up through the asphalt, all Mal can think is, _My fucking online friends are going to love this._

The brakes squeal, and Mal collides with the seat in front of them, their book tossed to the ground. Passengers scream as the bus swerves to avoid hitting the spikes and goes straight over the rails.

Something yanks the back of the bus before it can smash head-on with the asphalt. The bus tips backward as though someone is righting the bus with their own hands. Please don’t be Thor, Mal thinks. Aunt Margret would be so pissed.

The bus is set down safely on the ground. Everyone in the bus lets out a shaky cheer. The bus doors open, and Mal follows everyone out onto the pavement. Activity in the street has halted. Cars are turning around to avoid passing under a bridge where a superhuman battle is taking place, and people are coming out of cafes and shops to watch.

The bus driver sits down on the curb. He’s sweating profusely, and keeps staring at their bus—mostly undamaged, save for a long strip of webbing hanging from the bumper.

The teenager to Mal’s right is chattering into her phone. She looks remarkably cheery for someone that almost died. “I’m going to miss lunch. No, listen—Spider-Man just saved us. He’s fighting some weirdo in a fishbowl right now.”

Mal leans against the streetlight, and tips their head up. Spider-Man is a ball of movement. Fishbowl Guy is losing. Badly.

Fishbowl Guy drops to his knees and howls. Plumes of smoke envelop the overpass, and the crowd gasps. The teenager beside Mal relays everything to her friend on the phone.

When the smoke clears, Fishbowl Guy is bound in webs. Spider-Man is stood a few metres back, hands on his hips, garish suit glinting in the midday sun. The crowd starts cheering again.

Spider-Man spins on his heel and looks at the cars piled around him. There’s no one there, everyone having run off the overpass mid-fight. Then his gaze lands on the crowd gathered beneath the low bridge, and he jumps down in a move that would’ve shattered a normal person’s legs.

Spider-Man looks at the bus and the driver slumped on the curb, and jogs over. When he’s close enough, he asks, “Is everyone alright?”

The driver stares up at him. His mouth hangs open. He makes a noise like he’s dying.

Several people step forward, and then the whole crowd moves. Mal loses sight of the hero. They hear a lot of questions and praises, but nothing that actually answers Spider-Man’s question. Mal might not be a superhero fanatic in the way everyone else seems to be, but they don’t want the guy who stopped them from becoming a smear on the asphalt to be stuck in a crowd of sweaty strangers. Or for an embryonic hero to end up with an ego like Iron Man’s.

Mal elbows their way through the crowd. They’re not sure if it’s their choppy purple hair or spiky leather jacket, but people always part for them.

They find Spider-Man in the centre of the crowd, hands held palm-up, shaking his head. A woman waggles her phone under his nose.

“I can’t—I can’t just give out personal information like that,” he says.

The woman isn’t deterred. “Then I’ll give you my number and you can call me—”

“That’s not necessary, either.”

Mal jostles someone aside, and steps out onto the asphalt. Their online friends are going to eat this up; Spider-Man is bare inches away from them. Spider-Man is looking their way. Spider-Man is … a lot shorter in person.

Mal is a head taller than him, easily. They’re not sure if its the enlarged eyes on his mask, the almost delicate curve of his shoulders, the nervous way he flails his hands in front of him, trying to keep an invisible barrier between him and the crowd, but something in Mal’s stomach clenches. Superheroes are described as larger than life. But Spider-Man reminds them of their sister—fourteen years old, freckled and gangly like a deer, armoured with a stutter and a dorky smile.

A man about Mal’s age sporting a NYU sweatshirt and a fuckboy crewcut cuts in, “Dude, you caught a bus. _A bus.”_

Another man scoffs. He’s wearing a black apron and a matching cap. Mal is pretty sure he should be manning the coffee machine in the cafe behind them. “A bus? Haven’t you seen the videos? It’s the _flips_ that were awesome. Spider-Guy, are you secretly an outlawed gymnast?”

“How can a gymnast be outlawed?” Spider-Man says.

“How did Fishbowl McGee end up in the middle of the overpass? And, like, what was with the spikes and green fog shit?”

“He said his name was Mysterio, but I am absolutely calling him FishBowl McGee from now on. Thank you for that.” Spider-Man taps his fingers against his neck. He seems nervous. There’s something distinctly anxious about his curled shoulders and the restless way he bobs his head. “He uses, uh, illusions, I think? So I’m not sure if the spikes and fog were actually real, even if they felt tangible. I don’t know. Hopefully I won’t have to work it out, because I won’t have to fight him again, because jail. He’s going to jail.”

“So the guy had magic,” says the NYU student, “and you still kicked his ass. I can’t say this enough, because seriously, that whole fight? Badass.”

The crowd murmurs in agreement. Spider-Man covers his face with his hands. His face isn’t even visible with the mask. There’s nothing to cover.

Through the slats of his fingers, Spider-Man says in a voice higher and more breathy than Mal would’ve expected, “So—so no injuries? Then I’ll just … ”A woman grabs him by the wrist before he can wriggle out of the crowd. He glances down at the place where her palm touches red fabric. “Uh.”

“I think I’m in shock,” she says. “You need to carry me to a hospital.”

Her face is inches from his. Spider-Man makes a choked noise in the back of his throat, and leans back, out of her space. She leans forward with him.

Mal snags the back of her hoodie and hauls her back. “Emergency services are coming,” they say. “Probably paramedics, too.”

“Really?” Spider-Man says.

Mal shrugs. “Probably. You were fighting some fishbowl-headed fuck on a bridge at 2PM on a Saturday. I’m pretty sure someone called 911.”

“Right,” Spider-Man says. His chest is pushed out like a bird puffy up its feathers. His voice has dropped several octaves, and he’s leaning heavily into his New York accent. “I knew that. Everything is going to be okay, citizens.”

An older woman laughs. The chunky bracelets on her wrists clatter as she waves her hands in the air. “Oh, honey, you’re so cute.”

“Oh,” Spider-Man says, dropping the fake gruffness and accent. He squirms under their stares, in the same way Mal’s pubescent sister fidgets when people pay her compliments. “Um, thanks? Thank you?”

The NYC students puts a hand on his chest. There are hearts in his eyes. Mal thinks they might actually be witnessing someone falling in love with a masked stranger.

“Do you want something to drink?” the barrister asks.

The crowd seems to realise Spider-Man has no real reason to stick around, and start shouting out their own offers; there are more requests for photos and autographs, offers of drink and food, and the woman Mal had had to haul away from Spider-Man starts begging to be swung around the city on his webs just _once, please, I’ll pay you!_

“There’s something wrong with the back of the bus,” Mal says loudly. They crosse their arms over their chest, and glower at everyone beneath their choppy fringe. “You should check it out. Might be really dangerous.”

Spider-Man bounces on the balls of his feet. He waves at the bus. “Can you show me?”

Mal shoves through the crowd. Some people try to trail after them, but Mal shoots them a dark look. “Come on,” they say to the crowd, “what part of dangerous did you not hear?”

“Right,” Spider-Man says, putting on his fake-authoritative voice again. It’s so bad. Has that ever worked for him? “Everyone please stay back for your own safety.”

Mal doubts it’s the voice, thinks it probably has more to do with the expensive suit glimmering in the midday sun and the fact that Spider-Man has been seen in the company of multiple Avengers, but people listen to him. The people step back onto the sidewalk as Mal rounds the back of the bus, Spider-Man following after them.

The bus is covered in graffiti, yellow spray paint over an advertisement about insurance. The bus is old, but undamaged. Spider-Man looks at it, and then at Mal.

“You didn’t pull me away so you could, like, kill me, did you?”

Mal’s startled by the laugh that climbs up their throat. “What? No. You seemed overwhelmed by the crowd.”

Spider-Man makes a dismissive noise, and waves his hand in the air. “That? No way. I deal with that all the time. It’s a part of being an Avenger.”

“Are you an Avenger?” Mal asks.

“Yes,” Spider-Man says. He’s not very convincing.

“Right.”

“I’m super good with all forms of social interaction. Especially with strangers. Look how well this conversation is going, right? Right? Hey, what did you say your name was?”

“Mal.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mal. I’m—uh, I’m Spider-Man, but I supposed you already worked that out for yourself, what with the webs and the suit and stuff.”

Mal looks at the hero for a moment—a full head shorter than them, his voice pitching up at the end of his sentences—and says, “When I called you an embryonic hero on Twitter, I was joking about you being new to the whole vigilantism thing, not … ” Mal gestures at Spider-Man.

“You just gestured to all of me.”

“Exactly,” Mal says.

Spider-Man looks over Mal’s shoulder, towards the overpass. Police have sectioned off the area. Soon, they’ll be heading this way to talk to witnesses and chase down the hero of the hour. Spider-Man broadcasts his emotions with every line of his body, but now, his mask hiding his expression, arms crossed over his chest, he’s unreadable.

What kind of person puts themselves in danger to help others, works side-by-side with the Avengers, and then hides their face? Mal can’t fathom it. They’re private, but they doubt they would last a week, juggling a life as a hero alongside their personal one.

It’s that realisation—that Spider-Man isn’t going to wait to be checked over by the paramedics like everyone else; that he might not have someone who knows his identity waiting at home; that he saved Mal’s life and then stuttered his way through a conversation with all the nervous, buoyant energy of Mal’s little sister—that makes Mal step forward. They hook a hand around Spider-Man’s elbow, holding him there, and says, “Are you okay?”

Spider-Man falters. “What?”

“That fight was pretty intense, and you were in the middle of it.”

“I’m used to it.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Mal’s glad they had the forethought to pull Spider-Man aside. They don’t want proof that they interrogated this kid in tights posted online. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Spider-Man says in a small voice. “I’m okay.”

Mal drops his arm. “You should go before the police show up.”

He pauses and looks back at Mal. “Thank you. For caring, I mean.”

Mal rolls their eyes, and thinks, _That’s my line._ Aloud, they say, “Go.”

Spider-Man goes. He leaves a trail of flashing cameras and shouts in his wake; a scorched overpass, and a wannabe villain bound in webs; and Mal, leant against a graffitied bus, watching him go.


End file.
